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The Blacksmith Sneak Peek
Northumbria, England, 1214
“This is treason.”
Lance said it first and wasn’t surprised when no one responded. They all knew it, and speaking the word aloud again would serve no purpose.
“Think carefully before you respond.” Conrad moved to the flap of the tent, peered outside, and apparently satisfied, sat back down.
So this was why his friend had set up so far away from the rest of the tents. Conrad had known that his proposal would turn the four of them into traitors.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
The earl would only have proposed such a drastic action after careful consideration, and he trusted his friend implicitly.
All three of the men watched him, none more carefully than Conrad. But he had said his piece. He wouldn’t change his mind.
“We will need support.” Terric had more reason to march against the king than any of them, but he was also the most cautious. He would have the most questions, but Lance was confident he would do it. They all would.
“If the Northern lords don’t join together now,” Conrad said, “then they are lost.”
“We’ll be lost too, lest you forget.” Guy crossed his arms and sat back in the chair that had been carted here on a wagon filled with the luxuries afforded them by Conrad’s station.
Their friend cared little for such comforts, which was why it had surprised Lance when he’d insisted on attending the Tournament of the North in such a stately fashion, something his father would have done were he still alive. Conrad was reminding those who might join their cause that the Earl of Licheford was one of the most powerful Northern border lords.
“I am no great lord,” Guy continued, “but I’m as affected by John’s policies as any.”
“And taxes,” Conrad added. “His policies and taxes. Both will be our demise if we allow it.”
Guy shrugged as if their friend had asked if he wished for a meal rather than suggested they join forces against their king. “I’d not turn away an adventure such as this.”
“An adventure?” Terric shook his head. “You’re mad to call it one.” Then, turning back to Conrad, “You have a plan?”
“The beginnings of one, aye. The most crucial part being your support.”
By “your” he meant the three of them. With just one more assent, the course of each of their lives would change forever.
Terric stood and extended his arm, fist clenched. His friend had extended his arm for such a vow only once before.
Conrad clasped his wrist.
Guy was next.
Lance, last.
“Today we pledge more than a vow of silence. We form an order this day.” Conrad looked directly at Terric. “The Order of the Broken Blade.”
A perfect name. A symbol of the abuse of power that can accompany a man who believes his rule divine. Nothing but silence followed his proclamation.
It was more than a name. It was a promise. Like the first one they made to one another many, many years ago. No one else would understand the significance, yet each of them did—and each took it to heart.
“For England,” Terric said. Ironic for him to be the one to say so, as he was the only one among them not English.
Lance hated to dissent but thought it important to mention a fact Conrad seemed to have overlooked.
“An order? Of knights?”
Unclasping hands, they waited for him to finish.
“Surely you see the problem? Aye, you’re an earl, and Terric’s a baron’s son.” He nodded to Guy. “Even the mercenary is a knight.”
“And my title is well earned,” Guy winked, “unlike these two.”
Lance couldn’t help but smile at that. Guy had made the remark many times over the years. That it failed to rile Conrad now was a mark of the seriousness of their discussion.
“Take out your sword,” Conrad ordered, his gaze on Lance.
There were few men Lance took orders from these days, but this man was one of them. So he complied.
He’d intended to remind Conrad he was but a blacksmith, but there was no use telling his friends what they already knew. And though Lance had no use for a fancy title or any of its trappings, the solemnity of the moment was not lost on him. No, it was clear to them all. One look at Terric’s and Guy’s expressions told him as much.
Ignoring the others, he dropped to one knee, laying his sword across it as Conrad pulled out his own sword. Tapping him on each shoulder, he uttered the words Lance had never thought to hear in his lifetime. When he was finished, Conrad bade him rise.
“Stand up as a knight, in the name of God.”
He did, unsure what to say.
“Do you have any further opposition to our order?” Conrad asked.
“No.”
“Good. We’ve much to discuss.”
Of that, Lance had no doubt. Rebelling against a king required planning, after all.
“Including your new title.” Guy bowed to him. “Sir Lance.”
“I quite like it.” Terric bowed as well.
“A Scots clan chief bowing to an English blacksmith.” Guy looked at Conrad, raising his eyebrows dramatically. “I’ll admit ’tis a sight I’ll not soon forget.”
“When you finish jesting . . .”
“Does he ever?” Lance asked Conrad sincerely.
“We’ve the small matter of King John to discuss.”
Small matter indeed. If even a hint of what they’d just done were whispered to the wrong person, their heads would be forfeit for it.
Knight or blacksmith, earl or mercenary . . . none of their titles, or lack thereof, would matter if they were exposed as
